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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068899">Black Treacle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii'>kekinkawaii</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:42:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He hears the rain hitting the top of his hood, pittering against the enclosure that surrounds them. He hears a rustle outside. He hears the rushing stream of the lake a few minutes’ walk from here. A gentle breeze curls in and kisses Castiel’s damp cheeks.</p><p>(Five times it rained, and one time it stopped.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Black Treacle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmayflowers/gifts">bringmayflowers</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY PING!!! Third time around honouring our birthday tradition!</p><p>Title from Suck It and See by Arctic Monkeys. A thousand thanks to SpectralHeart and ensorcel for the beta and encouragement.</p><p>Enjoy! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>nine.</b>
</p><p>Castiel Novak is nine years old, and he lives in Charlesmith.</p><p>He tastes the word on his tongue, turning it over and testing the flavour, the nuances between the syllables. <em> Charlesmith </em> sounds very different compared to <em> Miami. </em></p><p>He lives in Charlesmith. It’s raining. The sky is grey and streaked with clouds that look like the pulled salt-water taffy his mother used to make. Their truck pulls up onto the driveway, and he stares at the nondescript, squat house that is now his home.</p><p>He helps his father unload by carrying the small knapsack that holds his stuffed elephant, Fitz. His home has two bathrooms and one shower, a marbled sink that creaks with the turn of a handle, and a bed that smells like damp and dust. He pulls a sky-blue mattress over the grey, his own, and sinks onto the bed face-first. He closes his eyes and presses his cheek into his pillow. He breathes in. It smells like Miami.</p><p>He allows himself this for a few minutes longer before getting up. He pads downstairs, where his father is rearranging the mugs on the kitchen counter, and tells him he’s going out for a walk. </p><p>“Don’t go too far,” his father says.</p><p>It’s still raining. Castiel doesn’t own a rainjacket, and his tweed coat turns into moist heavy fuzz in the mist.</p><p>There are two figures squatting near the curb to his driveway. One is taller than the other, blond hair plastered to his forehead as he ruffles the longer, brown curls of the shorter one.</p><p>“Hello,” Castiel says.</p><p>The taller one raises his head. He has green eyes that immediately slant with suspicion, the arm around the shorter one drawing closer in a protective gesture that rings of parental protectiveness, though he cannot be older than Castiel himself.“Hi,” the boy says. “I’m Dean.”</p><p>“Castiel,” Castiel says. “I just moved here.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dean says, and nudges the shorter one with a shoulder. “Say hi, Sammy.”</p><p>“Hi,” Sammy mumbles, ducking his head into Dean’s chest. “I’m four,” he informs Castiel with solemn hazel eyes.</p><p>Castiel nods at this, and then looks down at the curb, which is rapidly filling up with water, a rushing slide of rotting leaves and muddy pebbles swirling down the street. There is a small boat in Dean’s hand. It’s bogged down in the stream, waterlogged newspaper gone grey with spilled ink.</p><p>“Wanna play with us?” Dean says.</p><p>Castiel says, “Yes, please,” and squats down so that he’s next to Dean and Sammy.</p><p>When his father calls him home for dinner, the tail of Castiel’s coat is splattered with sewer water and the rest of him is just as soaked. His father tells him to be more careful; he could catch a cold. Castiel says he made a friend. His name is Dean.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>thirteen.</b>
</p><p>Castiel Novak is thirteen years old, and he’s inside an old, rotting tree in the middle of the forest.</p><p>There’s a ratty old red-checkered picnic blanket that Dean found forgotten in the park last summer, and it acts as a tarp between all the spiders and the ants. Castiel doesn’t mind the bugs. If he doesn’t bother them, they don’t bother him, but Dean hates them—says he can feel them crawling all over the back of his neck the whole way home. Sam thinks the bugs are going to crawl all over the back of his neck and down his shirt and into his pants, blanket or not. Most days, it’s just Dean and Castiel.</p><p>Today is like most days, except that it’s raining, and there are no bugs at all. Even the spiderwebs are dappled with dew, residents hidden in the crevices of the bark.</p><p>Castiel has his back leaning against the smoothest part of the inside of the tree, where the wall is tan-coloured and speckled with bug-bitten holes. His feet are tangled up in Dean’s. Dean doesn’t mind the roughness of the other side, says it’s like a massage.</p><p>Castiel holds a copy of <em> The Mazerunner </em>in his hands, but he’s not reading it more than he’s sheltering it from the splatters of rain coming down from the ceiling. A few minutes later, he gives up and simply tucks it into his coat.</p><p>He looks up. Dean has his hands laced behind his head and his face turned to the ceiling. His eyes are closed. Castiel watches him for two seconds, counting inside his head, until Dean’s eyes flutter open and latch onto his.</p><p>“I told you I can tell when you’re lookin’,” Dean says.</p><p>Castiel huffs, and crosses his arms. “I don’t know how,” he mutters. “It’s not as if I’m <em> touching </em> you.”</p><p>“With your eyes, maybe,” Dean says, and shrugs. “I dunno. My dad says it’s my sixth sense.” He raises an eyebrow. “What, am I more interesting than the book?”</p><p>Castiel cants his head, and then answers, “Yes.”</p><p>Dean smiles.</p><p>“Isn’t it so cool in here?” he says. His voice has gone quieter, like he’s telling a secret. “It’s like our own little world.”</p><p>“I suppose,” Castiel says. Their own little world. He likes that. He flinches as a bead of cold water manages to snake past his collar and trail down his back, like an anteater licking his spine. “I would like it more if it wasn’t raining,” he professes.</p><p>The look on Dean’s face suggests Castiel has just said something unerringly ridiculous. “Rain’s the <em> best,” </em>he says.</p><p>“I don’t like it,” Castiel says. “My father says I’ll get a cold if I stay out in the rain too long. He won’t be happy when I get home all wet.”</p><p>“Don’t you have a jacket?”</p><p>“Yes, but it doesn’t have a hood. My father says you lose ninety percent of your body heat through your head.” As if to prove it, Castiel runs a hand through his hair and flicks some of the water out.</p><p>Dean frowns. His jaw sets, and he begins to take off his coat—a big, floppy, dark thing with a dozen pockets that always makes him look smaller than he actually is.</p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>“Let’s swap,” Dean explains, holding out the dark green bundle towards Castiel. “Mine has a hood.”</p><p>Castiel immediately shakes his head. “I don’t want you to catch a cold, either.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, have you seen me ever get sick?”</p><p>“No,” Castiel admits.</p><p>“Exactly. You, on the other hand…” Dean gives him a steadfast look and Castiel gives in, sighing as he reluctantly slips off the sleeves of his jacket. He takes the book out and holds it in one hand while he swaps jackets with Dean.</p><p>“I’ll give it back to you when it stops raining,” Castiel says.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean says absently, like he doesn’t really care. He takes Castiel’s jacket and slides it on, zipping it up all the way to his chin. It’s odd to see it on someone else.</p><p>It’s equally as odd to wear someone else’s himself. If the coat was too big on Dean, it swallows Castiel whole. It’s still warm, warmer than Castiel had been earlier, and it’s a welcome sensation, a pleasant release. The very tips of his fingers peek out of the sleeves, and he shakes them out to extract his hands so that he can reach around and pull the hood over his hair.</p><p>Once he’s settled, book snug against his chest and head hidden from the rain, he smiles at Dean. “Thank you.”</p><p>Dean smiles back. “Now, close your eyes,” he says.</p><p>“Why?” Castiel asks, even when his eyes are already slipping closed.</p><p>“Listen,” Dean says.</p><p>Castiel listens. He hears the rain hitting the top of his hood, pittering against the enclosure that surrounds them. He hears a rustle outside. He hears the rushing stream of the lake a few minutes’ walk from here. A gentle breeze curls in and kisses Castiel’s damp cheeks. He inhales the scents of the forest that carries the sweet promise of summer.</p><p>“I suppose rain isn’t that bad,” he says.</p><p>Dean doesn’t respond. They sit in silence, unwilling to break the melody of the rain, the stirring of the leaves that shake and tremble, the wind that whistles through the entrance to their own little world. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>fifteen. </b>
</p><p>Castiel Novak is fifteen years old and he is one misstep away from vomiting three-hundred feet up in the air.</p><p>“Fuck,” he says. He’s sitting next to Dean on the Leviathan, and his hands are shaking where they grip onto the safety hold of the rollercoaster so hard his knuckles are eggshell-white.</p><p>Dean’s laugh is so loud, it nearly overpowers the roaring of the rain that slams down in buckets and sheets, drilling the ceiling like an overly-enthusiastic jackhammer. “Again!” he shrieks.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says with horror.</p><p><em> “Cas,” </em> Dean says, stretching out the word to three syllables. He shakes his head, water flying out and hitting Castiel on the face. He grins, a wild glitz in his eyes. Rain is dripping off his chin and running down his flushed cheeks in shiny little rivulets. “One more. Come on. One more.”</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel repeats, wide-eyed. “The water feels like <em> bullets.” </em></p><p>“I know!” Dean says gleefully. “And there’s no line! We can ride it over and over and over and over and <em> over!”  </em></p><p>Castiel fights the urge to point out that the reason there is no line is because all the other amusement park attendees were smart and sensible enough to flee upon the first splatters of rain that, in seconds, ballooned into this battering, screaming storm that the two of them were now smack dab in the middle of. Point-blank. Ground zero. Bullseye.</p><p>“Please, Cas?” Dean lowers his head and nuzzles his dripping-wet hair into the crook of Castiel’s neck like a deranged, drowned cat. “For me? One more?”</p><p>Castiel catches the eye of the amused park employee in the booth, who shakes her head with a mix of exasperation and disbelief.</p><p>“You owe me so much for this,” he says, and gives the employee a thumbs-up.</p><p>Dean whoops and punches the air as the ride slowly creaks into movement. As they exit the cover of the wooden ceiling, Castiel hears the rain first—a thundering applause—transforming into icy pellets that hammer down his head. He shuts his eyes and prays.</p><p>Halfway up the hill, he feels Dean’s grabbing at his hand, prying his fingers off the safety rail.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel warns, his voice dead quiet and filled with threats dark enough to deter a grown man.</p><p>“Trust me,” Dean says. “C’mon, Cas. Please?”</p><p>Castiel squeezes his eyes tighter. The seat is rumbling underneath him. It feels like it’s going to shake right off the rails. “I hate you,” he says, and loosens his grip.</p><p>The instant he lets go, Dean intertwines their fingers together and squeezes hard. “Open your eyes,” he says.</p><p>Castiel opens his eyes and is immediately blinded with rain that feels like solid, genuine steel <em> bullets. </em>Before he can close them, Dean grabs Castiel’s face with the hand that isn’t in a death grip with Castiel’s, and nudges it to the side, so that his cheek bears most of the attack.</p><p>Dean’s eyes are a beacon, a brilliant sparkling green that pierces through the pummelling force of the rain. He’s grinning so fiercely it looks like it hurts.</p><p>“I <em> hate </em> you,” Castiel says. His heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to leap right out of his open mouth.</p><p>“I love you too,” Dean says.</p><p>When they fall, it’s to the sound of Castiel’s terrified shout and Dean’s high, careless laughter flinging through the air.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>sixteen.</b>
</p><p>Castiel is just stepping out of the indoor hall and into the stadium bleachers outdoors when he hears the rumbling coming from above. The sky has darkened into a jar of ink. By the time he reaches his seat, it spills past the brim and pours all over the students of Charlesmith High.</p><p>Announcements spoken through a crackly speaker minutes later concludes that the game will go on. There’s no thunder nor lightning, and even if there was, Castiel had a thread of doubt towards Coach Singer’s compliance to the rules. Not when it’s their final game of the year and they’re so nose-to-nose that even he, who has not a single sports cell in his body, has begun to feel the adrenaline creep into his bloodstream. To prove this point further, about ninety percent of the spectators remain firmly in their seats, only now adorned with umbrellas and ponchos.</p><p>Castiel has no such luck. He sinks deeper into his seat and wonders why he never remembers to buy a coat with a hood.</p><p>Five minutes before the game ends, Number 17 scores a field goal that brings them up to two points higher than their opposing team. The next five minutes are lost in a blur of chants and cheers and the steady pounding of the drumline at the side of the field. Even the rain seems to carry the rhythm. When the buzzer finally sounds with the board flashing 21-19, Charlesmith, Castiel finds himself right up there with the rest of the celebrating students. It’s an absolute riot down in the field, helmets flying through the air and adrenaline-laced athletes racing and leaping through the mud. Castiel scans his way through the chaos until he spots a bright, blocky 17 on the very bottom of a four-man dogpile.</p><p>As they take off their helmet and shake out their dirty-blonde hair, Castiel continues watching. Two seconds later, Dean looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, and he smiles.</p><p>Outside of the stadium, students are hustling their gear into minivans and calling their parents and kissing their girlfriends. High-fiving, fist-bumping, hip-checking cliques scatter out into the streets in search of a late-night bubble-tea stop.</p><p>Dean is leaning against the wall next to the exit. When he sees Castiel, he swings the black umbrella in his hands around twice before lightly whapping it against Castiel’s chest.</p><p>“You never learn, do you?” he scolds. “I told you to bring an umbrella.”</p><p>Castiel is doused in rain that feels like it’s seeped right through his skin and into his bones. He’s drenched in the stale, stiff chill, but he shrugs and hides the way his body betrays him with a shiver and a suppressed sneeze.</p><p><em> “You </em>have one, don’t you?” Castiel says.</p><p>Dean sighs. “I’m being exploited,” he mourns.</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel says. “I’m only friends with you for your umbrellas.”</p><p>“Oh, Cas, you’re breaking my heart,” Dean says, and opens the umbrella right in Castiel’s face so that the moisture gathered in the creases spray out into his eyes. </p><p>Sputtering, Castiel uselessly wipes at his face with his wet hands until Dean steps closer, and pulls off his football gloves. He pushes Castiel’s hair back, smoothes it behind his ear, and runs his thumb along Castiel’s eyelids until they’re dry.</p><p>Castiel opens his eyes and blinks at Dean. The steady thrum of raindrops hitting his head have ceased, and he looks up to see an expanse of black tarp.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, a beat too late.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Dean says.</p><p>They make it two steps past the door before they’re interrupted.</p><p>“Winchester!” A dark-haired boy shouts. He slaps Dean on the shoulder. </p><p>Dean turns to him and gives him an easy grin. “Hey, Adam,” he greets. “Awesome game, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah, you rocked it, man,” Adam enthuses. “Hey, me and some others are gonna go get pizza—wanna come?” In an instant, his eyes come to flit on Castiel. So briefly Castiel nearly misses it.</p><p>Dean doesn’t. He follows Adam’s gaze until it lands on him, and then he purses his lips. “Nah,” he says. “You guys go ahead. I’m gonna go home.”</p><p>Adam sighs. “Boring,” he drawls. “Fine. But, hey, party at my place tomorrow night, eight o’clock, alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be there.”</p><p>“Cool. See ya.” Adam thumps Dean on the back one more time before bounding away, catching up with a gaggle of four or so other boys, loud and boisterous on the sidewalk with a victory-drunk swagger like they own the place.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel mumbles after he’s gone.</p><p>Dean starts walking, so Castiel follows. “What?”</p><p>The umbrella suddenly seems restricting. “You shouldn’t have done that.” </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>Castiel tries to shrug with nonchalance. “I can walk home by myself. You should’ve gone with your friends.”</p><p>There’s a pause, and then Dean bumps Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “Hey.” He’s speaking so softly Castiel needs to tilt his head and lean in to hear him. “I know you can walk home by yourself. But I didn’t want you to.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have to do things just because of me,” Castiel says stubbornly.</p><p>He can feel Dean sigh against the side of his cheek, a gust of air that tickles his ear. In a swift, sudden motion, Dean shifts into a one-handed grip on the umbrella, and wraps his arm around Castiel with the other.</p><p>He squeezes Castiel’s bicep. “Cas,” he says. “I’m walking home with you because I want to walk home with you. Because I like you more than pizza. Okay?”</p><p>“Oh,” Castiel says, warmth rising to his cheeks. “Okay.”</p><p>“Good,” Dean says, and lets go of him. “Now, let’s go home before your dad kills me for bringing you back past curfew.”</p><p>The sidewalk is crowded, and the two of them do their best to stay on the right side whilst under one umbrella. This means that their shoulders brush together with every step, that Castiel needs to watch his feet to make sure they don’t accidentally trip themselves up all over Dean’s, and that he can feel the heat of the other boy emanating from his side, thawing the chill of the autumn rain from the inside out. The band of skin where Dean put his arm around him is tingling.</p><p>Castiel Novak is sixteen years old, and he’s in love with Dean Winchester.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>seventeen.</b>
</p><p>Castiel is awoken by a tapping noise on his window.</p><p>He blinks, and stares up at the ceiling until it comes again, as if impatiently. He sighs, and gets up, and draws aside his curtain.</p><p>His lecture about sleeping hours being sacred dies in his throat when he catches sight of Dean in the window. His eyes are red and his lips are pressed tightly together, and his hand that pinches another pebble in his fingers is just barely trembling.</p><p>Castiel hurriedly opens the window. “Dean, what’s wrong?” he says, intense with worry.</p><p>Dean says, very quietly, “Can you come outside? Please?”</p><p>Castiel hesitates for the briefest of moments before nodding. Dean’s face breaks into relief. “Thanks, Cas.”</p><p>“Give me one minute,” Castiel says, and he’s shutting the curtains so that he can pull on a pair of pants. He carefully avoids the creaks in the steps as he walks downstairs. He grabs a jacket and heads outside, catching the clock in the hall as he exits the house. It’s 3:19 in the morning.</p><p>Dean is waiting for him on the front porch. He’s sitting on the steps with his hands clasped in his lap, staring up at the stars.</p><p>Castiel steadfastly ignores the prickles of moisture drifting through the air that hint towards the slightest rain, so subtle it’s almost mist. They settle onto his skin as he sits down next to Dean. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>There’s something in Dean’s hand when he unfolds his fingers. It’s a necklace with a smooth, shimmering stone in the middle.</p><p>“Dad gave it to me for my birthday,” Dean says. “It was my mom’s.”</p><p>“Oh, Dean,” Castiel says.</p><p>Dean clenches his hand so that the edges of the pendant are digging into his palm. “It was a house fire,” he says, voice halting, forcing himself to tamp down his emotions so that the words can creep out. “Some—gas leak, or something. My dad used to smoke. He quit afterwards.”</p><p>He stops talking. Castiel bites his lip, and shuffles closer so that he nudges against Dean’s side. Dean leans into the touch gratefully.</p><p>“She died when I was four,” Dean says. “It’s been thirteen years.”</p><p>Castiel feels a lump in his throat threatening to burst. “She would’ve been very proud of you,” he says.</p><p>Dean’s looking at him. “You think?” </p><p>Frightened of his own words, Castiel nods.</p><p>Dean’s chest heaves for a moment. Something raw and fragile flickers in his eyes, and Castiel gives in to what his body has been screaming at him to do since he’d seen him tonight. He puts his arms around Dean and hugs him as close as he possibly dares.</p><p>Dean grapples for the back of Castiel’s jacket and clings back with a shimmering desperation. Castiel can feel the necklace digging into the small of his back.</p><p>“Sometimes I wish it was raining just a little bit harder,” Dean says.</p><p>Castiel can only hold on tighter.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>eighteen.</b>
</p><p>The air outside is crisp and cool as Castiel stomps out and inhales a huge lungful of it, holding the chill inside his chest until it begins to ache before expelling it harshly.</p><p>It’s raining. Of course it’s raining. Castiel thinks whoever came up with the phrase ‘pathetic fallacy’ had it very aptly named.</p><p>He shuts his eyes and turns his face towards the welcome pattering of raindrops against his face. It’s always raining in this podunk town. When he first moved, he couldn’t wait to get out. And then he’d met Dean.</p><p>Of course, none of it matters now. He has a big shiny acceptance letter for a university halfway across the country, and Dean is working a near full-time job at the local mechanic these days. In less than three months’ time, Castiel is going to pack up his bags and he isn’t ever going to see Dean again, and the memory he’s going to hold of Senior Prom for the rest of his life isn’t going to be any of his fantasies nor dreams, but of Dean’s arm around Lisa Braeden as their lips meet.</p><p>Castiel wipes water from his eyes, and feels like he’s sixteen all over again.</p><p>“Cas!”</p><p>Castiel thinks of running, but stands still.</p><p>Dean’s hand grips his shoulder and spins him around. “Hey,” he says, sounding out-of-breath. “You alright?”</p><p>No, Castiel thinks, and says, “Yes.”</p><p>Dean frowns at him. His hand is still on Castiel’s shoulders. It shifts, draws across an inch of skin. Dean’s thumb brushes along his collarbone. It sparks. “Don’t lie, Cas. What’s wrong?”</p><p>“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel says. “I just needed some fresh air.”</p><p>Dean appears skeptical, but then an expression flits across his face, too fast to catch, before he sidles into a smile. “Alright,” he says. “I think I need some, too.”</p><p>He stops talking. Castiel stands, waiting to see Dean’s next move. An apology, an excuse, an accusation. But Dean is silent, seemingly content to tilt his head back and watch the stars. From the school, a thrumming bass beat drifts through the air, foggy and dampened through the walls.</p><p>Maybe this is all he’s ever going to get. He shuts his eyes and lets the rain wash over him.</p><p>He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it’s a prickling sensation that brings him back to the present. It’s inexplicable, indescribable—some sort of tingling down his jaw, a feather tickling his cheekbone, stroking across his eyelids. A phantom touch as gentle as breath itself.</p><p>He opens his eyes and sees Dean looking at him, green eyes tracing his features inch by inch. They lock onto Castiel’s gaze as soon as he sees him looking back.</p><p>Castiel’s mouth goes slightly agape in surprise.</p><p>Dean blinks, almost as if taken aback, and then a smile makes its way across his face, something sweet and stilted. “I knew you could feel it,” he says.</p><p>The realization clicks inside Castiel, impetuous and violent, the fleeting, all-encompassing thought of <em> three months </em>pummelling in his eardrums. It’s not nearly enough time for everything he needs, and if he wants to make it last he’ll need to act now. “Close your eyes,” he tells Dean.</p><p>Dean gives him a curious, weighted look, and then complies.</p><p>Castiel lets his eyes fall on Dean, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. He enfolds himself in every detail, from the plush pink curve of his mouth to the drops of dew on his neck. Dean’s breathing goes shallow and uneven, but he doesn’t open his eyes.</p><p>Castiel looks at the smattering of freckles on Dean’s cheeks, the escaped strand of hair cascading down his brow, and the graceful arch of dark lashes over trembling eyelids. That’s where he lets his eyes settle, anchoring himself as he takes an infinitesimal step closer. Then another. He lets his own eyes flicker closed.</p><p>His lips graze across Dean’s so softly, it’s as if he’s only looking.</p><p>One, two, three seconds, and the memory of it must be enough for a lifetime because it was all he was going to get, and he pulls back with the barest exhalation of breath.</p><p>One, two, three seconds, and both of them are still.</p><p>Then Dean leans forward. Presses his lips against Castiel’s.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes flutter open and catch a gleam of green, like football fields and bottle caps and leaf buds in the summer. Dean kisses him again. And it’s nothing like a revelation, not even close to an epiphany. It feels intrinsic. It feels like the first snowfall, a breath of air, the last puzzle piece clicking in. It feels like it was supposed to be there all along. <em> There you are, </em>Castiel thinks, and kisses him back.</p><p>Dean touches his forehead to Castiel’s and exhales a shaky laugh against his mouth.</p><p>“Guess what,” he whispers.</p><p>“What,” Castiel whispers back.</p><p>Dean cradles Castiel’s face in his hands, darts in for another kiss as if he just can’t help it, and tilts their faces up to the sky, where a moon-lit panorama casts a silvery glow over speckled constellations. The backdrop is dark like black treacle and tar.</p><p>“It finally stopped fucking raining,” Dean says.</p><p>Castiel feels the stupid, giddy smile tugging at his face and gives in. “It’s about time,” he says.</p><p>Dean murmurs an agreement before ducking in and meeting their mouths again, and for the first time since he got that letter, Castiel thinks that maybe three months isn’t so little time after all.</p>
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